The Night is Young
by super manako sohma
Summary: Gregory and Christophe are factory workers in Kamchatka and after participating in a worker's revolt, the leader of the Opposition is arrested. With the help of valuable information from Christophe, Gregory plans to free the political prisoner.


My sister actually wrote this entire thing for a school project of hers, which she received an A. She's all into revolutions and communism and that sort of thing. With her permission, I just changed the characters' names =P and the manners of speaking and posted this up nyah. Whether I will continue this or not is up to her…I don't think she is going to continue it, but let's cross our fingers. I kinda had fun with this already.

The Night Is Young

_Two weeks ago, the Opposition led a revolt against the oppressive government of Kamchatka, a peninsula in north-eastern Russia. The revolutionary leader, Sergei Stalenkova, was arrested at the scene and taken to a prison at the Capital. The federal troops could have seized all those involved in the riot, but doing so would shut down National Factory #19250—they could not afford to do that._

_Gregory Thorne, a leading member of the Opposition had decided to call together the group once again. Because they are going to meet, Gregory had his dearest friend and closest partner of the Opposition, Christophe Delorne obtain a newspaper, hoping that it would tell them what's going to happen to Sergei. Well, Christophe _did_ buy a paper…and it holds some startling news involving Sergei…_

--

I ran down the street to building #1.4 where Gregory lived and knocked. The cold winds of Mother Russia grew increasingly stronger once I arrived at Gregory's doorstep; I was stupid to go out on this task in only a T-shirt, scarf, and fingerless gloves. I bunched my scarf closer to my throat, trying to take in what little warmth it had. I swear the things I do for that bitch. I knocked harder, whispering a few profanities, until the door finally opened.

I glared at Gregory's appearance as he was standing in the doorway. He was dressed in his evening attire; his black slacks and maroon coat with a hint of a white buttoned shirt inside.

"Mole?" He asked, smiling innocently, "what are you doing here?"

I wanted slap him across his porcelain face. _Why do you think I'm here? You sent me on a mission, you fucking bitch!_ But I knew his intention.

"Gregory…I got zat paper you wanted, and…well…" I looked around, "_sheet,_ you need to let me in. Eet's fucking freezing."

Without another word, Gregory stepped to the side and I entered. He shut the door ever so quietly; Gregory was always good at stealth. The poor bastard always has to be on guard, even in his own living quarters. _That_, annoyed me. But he has a reason to be paranoid; the secret police had been very active these days ever since the incident…

"Tea?" Gregory offered.

I nodded.

"Black, please."

I made myself at home immediately, undressing out of my boots and taking a seat in front of the great stone fireplace. For a worker, Gregory lived in such nice quarters. Most of the furnishings, I'm guessing, he bought it with the money he'd steal from the politicians and the wealthy during the time of our resistance. It was a dirty thing to do, and very hypocritical considering the situation, but that's Gregory. However, my feelings changed once I realized the fire was on. It warmed me up instantly. I reclined on the couch, almost forgetting the reason why I brought myself here. Then Gregory arrived with the tea and I took my cup.

"_Merci_," I said once I took a sip.

Gregory set down the tray and took a seat in the couch in front of me.

"So Christophe," he began after taking a sip out of his own cup, "what did you find?"

Sat up from my relaxed position and took a deep breath, remembering myself and my purpose here.

"You're not going to like zis…" I began.

"Tell me. Just _tell_ me, Christophe," he was getting impatient. I don't blame him, but I just wasn't sure how to say it.

I took another deep breath.

"Gregory…Sergei Stalenkova's execution ees scheduled for ze first Sunday in October."

He turned to look at me. If he had just taken a sip of his tea, it would have been the perfect spit take. I have known Gregory Thorne for a long time, and one rarely, if ever, sees the man lose his calm and collected exterior. Given any other situation, I would be slightly amused. I'd laugh, even. But no, not right now. Now's not the time for play.

"Execution?!" He gasped, "But…no! Not Sergei!"

"_Oui_, Gregory," I said, my eyes closed, "and on ze first Sunday in October! Zat's—"

"_Three days from now!"_

"I know! I know! I…eet's not—"

"Which paper is it?" he snapped, "is it the Times or the Post?"

"Both, Gregory! I know…I didn't believe eet either when I read eet een ze Post, so I…" I could feel my voice dimming down, "I just got ze Times to make sure."

We looked at each other for a second. His eyes burned with fear.

"The usual vendor, too?" He asked. He was obviously trying to find some glimmer of hope to cling onto, some possibility, though small, that it wasn't true.

"The Nationalist Party could have set something up," he continued, "They're on to us, you know."

"Ze usual connection. Ze same exact one, Gregory."

There was another long pause; one of Gregory's "thinking" pauses. He was sorting out all the information in his head, deciding what to believe, how valid each piece of information was. He always closed his eyes and fell silent when something serious happened. Usually most people start freaking out and saying whatever comes to mind in these situations, but no. Not Gregory. He was a thinking kind of man. He's had years of training in the sort, and it's served him well.

Finally he spoke, "I guess it's true then…"

It sounded like that was more to himself than it was to me.

"Well?" I growled, "what do we do now?"

"I…don't know," he said, "I…what does the article say?"

I took the papers out of the back pocket of my pants.

"Ze Times says…"I skimmed through, "'Sergei Stalenkova, former Prime Minister…' um…'led an attack on Gate Two…wiz over four hundred workers…' ah. 'Ere…'Stalenkova was arrested on ze scene and taken zrough Gate Zree. After much consideration, ze legislature and ze Prime Minister 'ave decided that 'e ees to be executed on ze first Sunday een October.'"

"'After much consideration,'" Gregory quoted bitterly, "I guess this time, Prime Minister Aleksandr had no choice. He got away with saving his brother once, but a second time…no. He can't pardon the man twice."

"True," I said. We all knew the story. It was Aleksandr Stalenkova's greatest mistake, Gregory always said. But now Sergei was gone. There was no way we could save him…

"Does this mean…eet's over?" I said suddenly.

"What?"

"You know…Sergei's gone, so does zat mean ze Opposition…ees no more?"

"_What_?!" Gregory stood up so fast his chair fell behind him. He turned his head sharply in my direction, a look of anger on his face.

"_Fuck _Gregory, I was just…" I was getting a little scared now. "Sergei's gone, so…"

Gregory then did something that surprised me; he laughed. He laughed in a way I never thought Gregory Thorne could. It was like a cackle. A _cackle_. Gregory…Gregory, of _all _people, of _all_ times.

"He is most certainly _not_ gone!" He bellowed at that ridiculous statement, "Christophe, I'm surprised at you! You of all people, accepting something like that? What is wrong with you?"

"What's _wrong_ wiz me? I…" I was starting to laugh a bit too.

"There is no way that I…that _we_…we members of the Opposition, are going to take this!" Gregory started pacing around the room, "We're getting Sergei out of the Federal Prison, even if we have to invade tomorrow night!"

"Tomorrow night? Gregory, zat's ridiculous!"

"Why?" He barked.

"Well…we'll need weapons, and…and security's tightened up maximum since ze revolt, and…"

"We'll figure out a way!" Gregory knelt next to the table, facing me. "No matter what. Remember what Sergei always said? 'The people must never accept injustice. You're just as much at fault for your own mistreatment as the government is—"

"—if you don't show zose creeps zat you're not going to take eet!'" I finished.

"You see, Christophe? We can't just sit here and do nothing. We…we've got to _fight_ for it. We're going to free Sergei."

"How, zough?"

Gregory paused for a moment and said, "I'll come up with a plan. I…I think…"

He turned around and spoke mostly to himself, "If we try that…or wait, no. Now, that won't…or maybe it might, I'll have to…look again."

"Gregory?"

He turned back around. "Mole, leave those papers you brought. You need to get back to your quarters and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a hard day," he paused, "on all of us."

"You're sure you're fine alone?"

"Yes. I need to come up with at least an outline before the Opposition meets tomorrow. From there, we can discuss what to do and how to go about doing it."

I left the papers on the table as Gregory reached for the door.

"Do you…'ave any ideas?" I asked.

"Sort of. It might work, it might not. Or, it might just be a shot in the dark, but it's something, and I'm going to work with it."

"Alright," I said, heading out the door.

"Gregory?"

"Yes?"

"Ze Opposition…lives on?"

Gregory looked me dead in the eye, blazing intensity engulfing his features.

"Yes," he said as he closed the door.

I was three hours past the designated curfew, so I had to hurry back to my quarters before the militia standing guard sees me and arrests me. But it wasn't that difficult; I was a master or stealth and concealment, even more so than Gregory. That's probably why I was chosen by Gregory as one of the most valued members of the Opposition.

I looked up. The moon was high in the sky and I could probably fit a few hours of sleep before having to report to the factories tomorrow morning. For Gregory, however, the night is young.

XX

Oui, like it? It's somewhat a combination of the Scarlet Pimpernel and the Bolshevik Revolution. Either way, the idea of freeing political prisoners sends my blood into a steady boil.

Oh, and if you want to know, Gregory's original character's name was Kristov and Christophe's was Leon.


End file.
